


Haunting

by MeiJelly



Category: BBC Sherlock, Sherlock - Fandom
Genre: Blood, Grieving, Halsey - Freeform, Loss, M/M, Mentions of Death, PTSD, Panic Attacks, War, if you're sensitive to graphic things maybe you should go back
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-16
Updated: 2016-12-17
Packaged: 2018-09-09 01:30:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,899
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8870524
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MeiJelly/pseuds/MeiJelly
Summary: Sherlock was dead. And he wasn't coming back, no matter how many times John had begged his gravestone, no matter how many times he pleaded a higher being, and no matter how many tears he shed. The ghost of the svelte detective still lingered, and sometimes that helped, but sometimes... sometimes it drove John insane.Warning - There may be graphic depictions of many things.





	1. Chapter 1

_****_ _**Home** _ _  
_

 

 _You put a fever inside me_  
_and I've been cold since you left._

Sherlock always felt like home to John.  
That slender, reed-like figure was his safe place. When the memories became too much, when the world grew too bleak and his soul too weary, Sherlock was the place John went. His grey-blue eyes, his porcelain skin that nearly shamed parchment's white, his long fingers that ran through John's thick hair--everything about Sherlock somehow brought him peace. Even when the man tore up the kitchen with experiments and stowed body parts in the refrigerator, and even when he drove John up the wall.

He was perfect.

His dark, curled tendrils of hair that fell haphazardly over his forehead and framed his perfectly sculpted face.

His eyes that were the color of London fog, the color of a stormy sea.

His fingers that moved over the strings of a violin like they were only made for that purpose alone.

His supple and pale skin that would've looked unhealthy on anyone else, but fit him so perfectly.

His pursed and pink lips that mimicked the color of a sunset in the early stages when the sun was barely cresting the horizon.

Everything was perfect.

They rarely spoke about their feelings toward each other. They knew they were reciprocated. They knew they were important, but that they should be kept secret. They knew each other, and that was enough.

Late nights, John would feel Sherlock slide into his bed, silent and seeking John's warmth.

The slow mornings when John made breakfast, carefully and easily avoiding the beakers of God knows what.

But now those were gone.

Nothing would ever be the same again.

•

John's feet shuffled slightly, not lifting nearly as much as they had been at the days beginning. His figure was slumped slightly, curling in on itself as he stepped through the threshold and into the flat. He stood at the doorway, eyes wearily scanning over the dark room. He felt tears sting in his eyes and he tried to blink them away. When his breath hitched in his throat, and his chest convulsed slightly, the tears started. He vaguely felt them roll down his cheeks, but he paid no mind.

He felt his chest tighten when his eyes landed on a note, scrawled out in haste from days prior.

 **Be back by 5. Case with Lestrade.**  
**~ S H**

John's knees grew weak. He heard his keys clatter to the hard wood floor. Everything was so bleak. The stench of blood and wet pavement still lingered.

He was on autopilot, and he found himself in bed now. He vaguely wondered how he'd even gotten there. He decided it didn't matter. His fingers moved across the sheets and heavy duvet until they met what they were searching for. He gripped the soft fabric of Sherlock's pillow in his hands and pulled it to his chest. Burying his face into the pillow, John's tears started again.

Soon, he was asleep, but there was no solace in his dreams. They all consisted of what had happened only hours earlier. He forced himself not to believe it. If he didn't believe it, it wasn't true. It couldn't have happened. Sherlock was alive. How could he not be? This was Sherlock Holmes--he did not simply die. He was infallible. He was too wonderful to be dead. No. Any day, he would wake up and Sherlock would be laying next to him, or sitting upside down in his armchair, or putting arms and legs and hands and feet in the freezer amidst John's lasagna.

But days passed, and Sherlock was not there. Days passed and John sat silently, staring at his armchair until Sherlock returned. If he believed enough, Sherlock would come back. He had to.


	2. Change

_I tried to wash you away,_   
_but you just won't leave._

None of it had really hit John until today. The weight of everything. The funeral was today. He was supposed to be in full mourning, but that didn't make sense, Sherlock wasn't dead. This was just someone's funeral, not Sherlock's. The strangest thing was that John could see the minister's lips moving, as if he were speaking, but yet all he heard was a dull rumbling noise. Everything seemed so distant and drowned out, as if underwater. He came home from the service, but he didn't know what to feel. His chest still felt so tight, and he felt tears in his eyes, but he didn't understand why. Sherlock wasn't dead. Nothing had gone wrong. Why was he feeling this sadness when nothing had happened?

•

John was still on autopilot. It had been nearly one month since... well, let's just say he preferred not to think that day even happened. Sherlock was merely on holiday. That was all.

John kept the house clean, but he did not wash the sheets. He did not wash any of Sherlock's clothes. He cooked for two every night, because Sherlock was coming home. When he didn't, he deduced that Sherlock was merely late and would be back the next day.  
But somehow--somehow some part of John knew. Sherlock was gone.

Today was a bad day. Today John had gone into town, and he'd felt the tremors in his leg. He heard distant gunshots, he heard screaming and pleas to be helped--to be saved. He felt as the pavement dug into the skin of his knees as his leg gave out. Today he saw Sherlock's body. Today he could smell the iron and copper scent of blood. Today he watched his best friend and lover die again.

Today--today John broke.

Somehow, he'd made it home. He remembered now. He couldn't deny it this time. His leg still trembled and he could feel this terrible ache in his chest, like he'd been shot. The wound wasn't clean, it was torn and jagged, and the bullet still rested, embedded in his heart. He closed the door, sliding down its slatted panel and to the floor.

Sherlock.

Perfect, wonderful, clever, beautiful Sherlock, was dead.

John felt like he could explode. He felt like he would just fade away, burned up by the pain.

He had no safe place anymore. His everything was gone.

It was now that he felt the full weight of what had happened. He'd been floating through life, ignoring what had happened. He'd been in shock and denial for a month, a whole month. He didn't wash the sheets, subconsciously not wanting to get rid of Sherlock's scent. He didn't wash his laundry, not wanting to lose him that much more, he made dinner every night for two people. He expected Sherlock to come home. He expected everything to be fine.

He was living a lie for a month, silently forcing himself to believe Sherlock still lived--breathed.

John's vision grew dark. The sting of his knees didn't bother him. He hadn't even cleaned the wounds yet, he just sank, looking about the flat emptily. There was nothing for him now. He had nothing and no one.

Everything he lived for now, was gone. And the screams still rang in his ears, and that sickening sound--oh, oh God, not that. He could hear that deafening and terrible sound. He felt his stomach lurch, and his whole body tense. Unwillingly, he lost his lunch to the hardwood floor.

Now, he laid, sick, grieving and alone in an empty flat.

Sherlock was gone.

Everything was ruined, and nothing would be the same.

The world John knew came crashing down around him, and he could not stop it. 


	3. Before Him

_I've done some things that_   
_I can't speak._

Everything around John trembled, even his hands. Shell-shock? Yes, it could be called that. Mortars exploded everywhere, the ringing in his ears wouldn't stop. It drove him mad, but somehow also kept him somewhat sane. The earth was being bombarded around him, the force of it bringing John's stomach to a roiling ache.

The blood was pooling now--everywhere John looked. Patients, wounded, dead, even his own blood. John was supposed to be stitching people up, and he was, but his hands shook terribly, and he felt as if even he may lose consciousness. It took everything John had to keep it together.

There was screaming, pleas for help, moaning of the wounded, and dirt and grime covered everything. Their encampment was going to be raided soon, and John needed to patch these boys up before then. They had to be able to get out and to safety, while everyone that could stayed to fight. That included him. They had plenty of medics at the next camp over, but John would have to stay and tend the wounded that came with the oncoming rain of brass and bodies.

John was shaken back to reality by a pair of soft, calloused hands that helped him up gently. His weary eyes looked up, full of tears. It was Mrs. Hudson. She looked sad and worn, and her expression held so much worry...

John leaned against her a bit as she helped him to the loo. She cleaned him up with a damp and warm cloth, then brought him to the bed. She didn't speak much, just gave quiet commands, wanting to help John back to himself. John's gaze was distant, but every once in a while his eyes wandered to Mrs. Hudson's hands. They tended him like a mother would, and he vaguely knew that she felt a bit of what he did. She loved Sherlock too, just not the same way.

Soon, she was gone, leaving John to stare blankly at the ceiling, holding Sherlock's pillow to his chest. He'd stopped crying, but he still trembled slightly. He still heard the cries and groans of the wounded, he still smelled the blood and the field disinfectant that the fabric tents smelled heavily of. He could feel the slippery, crimson blood that soaked his hands. He felt like his hands would never be clean. Never.

He pushed aside Sherlock's pillow, holding his trembling hands to his abdomen, not wanting to stain everything. He could see it, but he knew it wasn't real now. He was in Sherlock's bed. He was in his home, not on the battle field.

The next thing John was aware of was that sunlight was spilling through the window, seeping into his skin, pooling in the sheets and duvet, and casting golden warmth into the room. He laid there for a long while, feeling his skin warm and his mind clear. Everything that came with that attacked him, reminding him that Sherlock was gone. Sherlock was dead and he wasn't coming back.

Yet, there still remained the ghost of that svelte and dark man. His broad shoulders, his mess of curls, those perfect hands, and even his sharp and beautiful collarbones.

The hazed but welcome figure laid next to him, silently assuring John that everything would be fine. The world would spin on, and they would always love each other. He whispered sweet comforts to John, reminding him that he was Sherlock Holmes--that he would never truly die.

Finally, John began to believe him. He began to believe that Sherlock was always beside him. He didn't need to call his therapist. He had Sherlock. He had everything he needed. Sherlock would always be right beside him, and he'd never leave again.


End file.
